


King, After All

by n7chelle



Series: Stone, Dragon, Tower [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Continuation, F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22299190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/n7chelle/pseuds/n7chelle
Summary: Nearly ten years after the Fifth Blight, tragedy strikes in Ferelden. Alistair finds himself facing down an obligation he thought he'd left behind for good.
Relationships: Alistair/Anders/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Female Aeducan/Alistair/Anders (Dragon Age)
Series: Stone, Dragon, Tower [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1358353
Kudos: 4





	King, After All

Whatever Alistair expected upon his arrival in Denerim, it wasn’t this. Captain Rischer escorted him not to the throne room nor the Queen’s antechamber, but to the inner wing of the Palace, where dressed stone and tapestries and torches in iron brackets were replaced with life size portraits of Ferelden's past monarchs, thick carpets that muffled their footsteps, and fine silver and glass lanterns with oil reservoirs and trimmed wicks to light the way. And at each doorway, along every corridor, at nearly every single corner, stood an armed soldier in the livery of the Queen’s personal guard.

He could be forgiven for feeling like a man being marched to his execution. Only, he very much doubted they would kill him where it would make such a mess on their luxurious floors. 

Finally, Rischer stopped at a set of double doors inlaid with polished wooden reliefs. A high dragon on one, a muscular hound on the other. The dark wood gleamed, a trick of the light making the shapes undulate and breathe before his eyes. Though he’d never seen them in person before now, Alistair knew these doors. He’d pictured them countless times as a boy, conjuring up the image from Eamon’s description. How many times had he daydreamed of being summoned by the King, of leaving his straw pallet and the Chantry dormitory's bland gray walls behind, of joining his father and brother amongst the trappings of finery and luxury they must enjoy? That dream died by slow degrees as he grew older and no soldiers came to escort their bastard prince to the Palace. By the time Duncan recruited him to the Wardens it was nothing but a boy’s childhood fantasy, a silly notion he’d long since outgrown. And now that he’d finally reached them, the last thing he wanted was to see what awaited him inside. 

Rischer didn’t give him a choice.

“I’ve brought the Warden-Commander,” she announced, after tapping a deliberate _one-two, one-two-three, one-two-three_ pattern on the door above the dog’s head. The pattern is repeated from the other side, a quiet knocking in the vicinity of the dragon’s ruby-red eyes. Then came the sound of mechanisms working, of metal sliding against metal before the door marked with the hound swung inward and Alistair was herded inside by his escorts. 

There was a fire blazing in a small hearth near the door, and another, grander fireplace further into the left wall. At any other time he might have stopped to marvel at the twisting stonework and iridescent pearl inlay, or the high-backed velvet armchairs gathered around the fireplace. But his attention was drawn to the wide bed at the back of the chamber, with its floor-to-ceiling canopy in gold and teal, and the woman he could just barely see beyond the partially opaque curtains. The covers had been drawn up nearly to her chin and tucked tightly around her, making her look almost like a swaddled babe. The air was thick with pungent incense, cloying wisps of smoke rising from golden braziers hanging in the far corners of the room, filling the space with a smell like overripe fruit. But Alistair would recognize the bitter tang of medicinal poultices and potions anywhere, and the sour stench of inevitability that made them necessary. 

Queen Anora was dying.

"Alistair!” 

Arl Eamon—of course it would be him—stood from a chair at the Queen’s bedside. He crossed the room swiftly, meeting Alistair at the door and dismissing the guards with a twitch of his hand. Rischer saluted smartly, turned on her heel to lead all the guards out into the hall, and Alistair was left alone with his uncle.

“I wasn't expecting you, but it’s good to see you are well. Very good.” His grip on Alistair’s forearm was tight, fervent in a way he didn’t care for. “Lady Aeducan...?" 

"She’s—unavailable. I’m acting Warden-Commander in her stead."

“Of course, naturally you’re her second-in-command.” The way he said it would be perfunctory to anyone else. Just a fact stated to fill the air. But it left Alistair no illusions about how Eamon felt. A mere subordinate at a small Warden Outpost, when he might’ve been King of Ferelden. But for once, Eamon didn’t dwell on his disappointment. “No doubt you’re wondering why you were called here, and the manner of secrecy involved with—”

“Anora’s _dying_ , Eamon,” Alistair cut in. “What happened?”

The bravado fell away from the Arl. His careful veneer shattered under Alistair’s bluntness, and fury deepened the lines in his face before it gave way to sorrow. 

“Poison,” Eamon sighed, resigned. “The healers have tried everything. _Everything_. Even the Ashes had no effect.” Alistair cast a glance at the Queen. Nothing stirred the hanging canopy drapes, nor the bedclothes tucked around her form. Only his Warden-heightened senses assured him that she was still breathing. “She—she hasn’t much time left. Which is why we’ve called on you.” 

Horror crawled up from the pit of Alistair’s stomach. No. _No_. Not now, after everything he’d been through to avoid it—

“It’s our last resort, but. Something has to be done. We must _try_ at least, for the sake of Ferelden. Few outsiders have knowledge of the ritual, but—”

“Ritual?” Alistair echoed, confused. 

“The Joining? If there’s any chance it can save Queen Anora, any at all—”

Fear melted away into relief, so sudden and intense it left him almost trembling. They hadn't come for him personally, only whoever answered to the title of Warden-Commander. Eamon didn’t need _him_ , the last heir of Maric Theirin. He needed the Wardens and the mysterious power of the Joining. A power he apparently thought could be the only hope the Queen had for survival. 

Which...actually wasn’t the worst idea the Arl had ever had. (Trying to shove a crown on his unwilling head still took pride of place in Alistair’s mind.) Anora was nothing if not tenacious. If there was anyone who might beat the Joining with sheer stubbornness, it would be her. But it had to be her choice. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—force it on her.

* * *

“Alistair…” Anora’s voice was a high, thready rasp. Barely a whisper. Her skin was so very, very pale, save for the bruise-purple shadows beneath her eyes. “I thought...it might be you. How is she...?” 

Alistair glanced at Eamon from the corner of his eye—lingering by the fireplace; watching them, but not so near that he might eavesdrop—before answering.

“Insufferable, as you might imagine. She’s got Anders and Morrigan in a right state.” 

Anora’s mouth twitched with a ghost a smile.

“Eamon...explained?” 

“Poison, Joining, save the Queen—got all the important bits,” Alistair said, favoring her with a smile of his own. An irregular breath stuttered between her lips, frightening him that perhaps humor had been a bad choice when she was at death’s door, before he understood: it was the closest thing she could muster to a laugh. The faintness of it sobered him quickly. "It's dangerous, Anora. If you don't survive the Joining, it'll kill you almost immediately."

Anora's eyes slid shut, only the raw sound of her breathing between them. Like the tip of a dagger scrapping over bricks—Alistair's heart clenched at it, the unvarnished proof that she was already clinging to life by her fingernails. 

"Already dying…Alistair," she said, giving voice to his thoughts. But her eyes fluttered open again, and he saw it: behind the pain and exhaustion that had limned her grey eyes with red was the fire that had kept her alive when Loghain and Rendon Howe locked her way; that had won over the loyalty of the Bannorn when all they saw was the blood of a traitor sitting on their throne; that had rallied an army to defend their city from an archdemon and the darkspawn horde.

Anora Mac Tir met death with a challenge: _Take me if you can, for I will not go easily._

* * *

Swift wings could reach Vigil’s Keep, and with the Maker's blessing, return in just a few hours carrying a vial of black blood. Whatever the outcome, Anora’s fate would be decided before sunrise. She would not see another sunset in her current condition. 

Anora’s faithful handmaiden Erlina watched over her lady, and Eamon brought Alistair to Anora’s private office. He scribbled a missive to Saoirse and Anders—addressing it only to _S. A._ , so as not to incite Eamon to nosiness—all the while discomfited by sitting behind the Queen's desk, in her chair, even for the scant few minutes it took to fill the parchment with ink, blot it hurriedly, and seal it with a dribble of wax. It felt too much like visiting the alternate world where this _had_ become his life: shut away in an office with Eamon at his elbow, pushing endless sheaves of parchment under his quill for him to sign. 

Alistair passed the time at Anora’s bedside, entertaining her with idle stories and anecdotes of the goings on around Vigil's Keep. He spoke enough for both of them and more, until a dry scratching started in the back of his throat that didn’t go away. He spoke of the mabari pups making a mess of the stables, of Oghren and his woman taking up a farmstead near the keep, of Saoirse and Anders, Kieran and Morrigan, always careful to omit anything not suitable for Eamon's ears. The last thing they needed were Templars banging at the gates for rogue maleficars. 

He couldn’t tell how much time had passed when the coded knock finally came, and was answered, but his eyes itched from rubbing at them and wanted to stay closed longer with each blink. Anora had begun to drift in and out, mumbling nonsense in a daze as the poison finally began to drag her under.

Rischer entered the room, and this time it was she who dismissed the other guards. Not until they’d regrouped in the hall and the door was barred shut behind them did she produce a satchel from her belt, and place the ink-black vial of blood in his hand. Somehow it was both too soon and far later than Alistair had anticipated. 

There was no time for ceremony. Alistair briefly sent up a silent prayer to Andraste and the Maker for the forethought that had resulted in them collecting a sizeable quantity of blood from the Archdemon all those years ago, before it could completely burn away from the acid corruption of the blood itself. Just as well that Anora and the Bannorn had seen fit to appoint Saoirse Arlessa of Amaranthine, and not install one of their own to oversee the outpost. There were, in fact, far more vials of the stuff locked away in the cellars below Vigil’s Keep than was generally known, and far fewer Grey Wardens walking around above than the Council might expect.

And now, Maker willing, Anora was about to join their dwindling ranks. But that was a problem for another time.

“Help me.” 

Rischer and Erlina turned down the covers, and together they lifted Anora into a sitting position. Erlina’s gentleness Alistair expected; she had courageously served the Queen through Loghain’s treachery and seen her safely to the other side of the siege of Denerim. But Rischer? The Captain of Anora’s guard wasn’t shy with her tenderness, stroking back the hair from the Queen’s sweat-dampened forehead, and then holding her upright in the circle of her armor-clad arms. Alistair suspected only he was ignorant of the true nature of their relationship, and that was yet another problem for another time. 

“Hold her steady,” Alistair said to Rischer, and uncorked the bottle. She nodded, a glimmer of fear shading her eyes, lips trembling faintly. Alistair felt himself falter. If they hadn’t said their goodbyes—no, not now, dammit! Not the time. He pushed the hesitation away, shoved it down and called on whatever remained of the Grey Warden in him, the warrior who’d stood beside the Hero of Ferelden and vanquished the Fifth Blight, and tipped the vial of archdemon blood against Anora’s open mouth. Her throat worked convulsively, swallowing down tiny portions of the thick stuff as fast as her weak body could manage. The bottle wasn’t half empty when streaks of grey began to crawl up her pale neck and her breath turned ragged. And still she drank, and drank, and drank until the bottle was empty but for a few ink-black droplets clinging to the inside of the glass. Anora’s head was flung back against Rischer’s shoulder, her chest rising and falling in pained, whining gasps. Too much air trying to force its way out of her lungs, not enough getting back in. And all they could do was wait, and watch, and hope. 

“Isn’t there—something more?” Eamon fretted. Alistair barely heard. The grey lines spread spiderweb-thick across Anora’s skin, darkened with the fullness of their corrupting influence. This was the crucial junction—just a few moments longer, and Anora would be a Grey Warden. The taint would flush the poison out of her, and Ferelden would have its Queen for another thirty years. 

Just a few more moments.

_Just a few more._

Anora’s breath sighed out of her, a long, whistling rattle like the gale of a storm sliding by a crack in a window...and she did not breathe in again.

**Author's Note:**

> I hate that I had to kill Anora for this story. I loved making her Queen in DA:O. 😭


End file.
